


Ses Mains

by scorpionmother



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hands, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4536858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpionmother/pseuds/scorpionmother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short piece written in the first person - Focussing on Vanessa's fascination with Ethan's hands.  Includes parts from series one and two and a happy ending x</p>
<p>I gift this work to my fellow Penny Dreadful fan and wonderful writer TwoForATable ( I hope she doesn't mind) because I love her writing and she always says such lovely things about mine.  I hope you enjoy this x</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ses Mains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwoForATable (AliSimAlice)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliSimAlice/gifts).



Victor once told me that out of the two hundred and six bones in the human body twenty seven of them are in each of our hands. I remember looking at my own hands, which had always been something much admired by both the men and women of my acquaintance, being that they are tiny, with narrow tapering fingers and very pale in colour. I could barely believe that Ethan and I could possibly have the same amount of bones, being that our hands are as different in size and structure as it is possible to be.

His hands have always been a source of fascination to me from the very moment I laid eyes on him. On those hands was and still is mapped much of the story of his life. I remember the first time I’d seen them they were in control of a gun making it almost come alive, as if it were part of him. That control showed much more though than a skilled showman, it demonstrated the ruthlessness of a killer and a man not averse to taking life with his bare hands if needed. Then later in that dingy pub I’d seen more; more than he was comfortable for me to see. His hands told me he was a habitual and possibly hardened drinker and not just for relaxation due to the slight tremble of the digits that he tried so very hard to conceal from me. A lover I knew him to be, having observed from a distance the private show he’d put on against the wall of his caravan especially for a young lady whose name I’m not sure he ever knew or if he did immediately forgot. But also a man who’s morals were questionable, a man to whom the seduction of the wives of others was not a concern, those who should not have found pleasure under his hands did and enjoyed it of that I was certain. 

The first touch of those hands that have become both my joy and my torment when they are removed was instigated by myself. He’d come to have his questions answered after the unusual events of the night before and I hoped, to see me again. At first I thought he was offended to have to discuss business with a woman but I quickly realised that he was wary of my intuition that so accurately lead me to note that he, like me in some way was cursed. He became colder, more reserved even suspicious as the conversation progressed showing none of the flirtatious humour he’d shown the day before. The endearments of honey and darlin’ were absent and I became in those moments Miss Ives. His hands twisted the brim of his plain, brown bowler hat and at one point laid flat on the table I sat at almost aggressively, where I’d, as we were talking, laid out the cards that I hoped would determine our destiny.

Just as he was leaving I asked him to indulge me, to pick a card. His frustration was evident and he made as to grab any card. It was then I reached towards his hand just before it could touch them and disturb their vibrations and I gently brushed his fingers with the tips of mine. The electricity between our touches was felt by both of us, I also sensed the strength that resided in his body and something of the horror he carried inside. I also noticed the texture, smooth but countered by the roughness of callouses that graced the pads of his figures and as I now know, the palms of his hands. Callouses that demonstrated a man who used his hands who knew hard work but could use them gently, lovingly. I smiled to see the reaction of his hands to the turn of the Lovers card gently flexing as if in need or want.

In the weeks and months that followed his hands became an integral part of my world. Watching them at relaxation as he shared a drink with me or Sir Malcolm, turning the pages of a book or at work with his guns I studied them. Their shape, square in the palm, the fingers long, splaying at the tips his nails short and squared off, at times with the faintest hint of blood beneath their surface a troubling occurrence but one I dismissed until I was forced to face its reason.

It was the touch of those hands that I remember the most clearly during the horror of my possession. Others touched my body both in care and to protect themselves against my frenzied attacks but it was always his touch that I recognised, the sweetness that was transferred through his hands deep into my soul which I believe now in some way brought me back. 

Later on as our acquaintance developed into friendship his touch became more frequent, natural. Taking my hand as I exited carriages, vibrating slightly on the small of my back as I entered a room in front of him. Brushing against mine as we shared one of my cigarettes. All normal reasons for his hands to touch me but always I felt, they lingered just a little longer than necessary but never so that impropriety needed ever to be mentioned. His hands betrayed his feelings more than any part of him. As the danger to us increased so did the frequency of that touching becoming firmer, even more intimate. Clutching my shoulders, comforting on my back and raised to stroke my face. His touch made with tremble with want but I was too afraid of that that I believed still to be in me to turn those touches into words until it was too late and then for that long, cold while those hands became but a memory. 

Finally after the emptiness of separation, our hands were reunited and one soft spring day were joined irrevocably and eternally together when his fingers lovingly slipped a plain gold band on the fourth finger of my left hand, unifying me to him as I knew I was always meant to be. Those hands even more became the centre of my universe gently stroking my hair which seemed an endless source of fascination to him. And then during hazy afternoons and darkening evenings, working the buttons open on my clothes, whispering over my flesh, caressing my skin, the callouses still present, increasing my pleasure as he loves me fiercely alternating the touch of his hands on my body with the pressure of his mouth. It seems sometimes as if his hands are never not touching me and I revel in their consistency.

I lie now exhausted in our bed and watch his hands as they hold, so tenderly in their care, the tiny body of our new born son. I see them cup the fragile body full of life and love, and know that whatever darkness we face we are safe, held within the surety of his touch. His hands are what holds us together.


End file.
